Pickle
by Borath
Summary: Prideshipping Oneshot. Fluff. Kaiba has something that Yami wants. Now how's he going to go about getting it?


Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, the YuGiOh franchise, the world or the moon, although I am working on that last one. 

A/Ns: Another one of my 'got one weird idea inspired by one word and ran with it to see where it would go' fics.  Was originally going to be called 'Thrall' but 'Pickle' becomes far more suitable later on.  Written in an hour with no planning and little editing.  Prideshipping and fluff ahoy.

Enjoy!

Pickle 

"Give me the pickle." 

I've sometimes wondered if Yami is a vampire.  Not often, just daily, like now actually.  Right now he stares at me with one of his most penetrating gazes, the lower lids of his eyes raised a few millimetres and the intense colour or his obscured irises seem hotter than normal.

His lips turned up a little at the sides and parted just a fraction, he's tipped his chin close to his throat and stares at me through dark lashes, enthralling me.  He's firing with both barrels right now.

"Kaiba, I want the pickle.  Let me have it."

To be honest, I don't like pickles.  I don't *want* the stupid pickle.  This is just a very pleasant situation.  Mokuba's out, Yami's practically begging and the reason behind his enthralling stare is undeniably phallic.  The position of dominance I've found myself in isn't exactly unappealing either.

I wave the pickle a little between by thumb and forefinger, watching Yami's eyes snap to and follow its movements before returning to mine, resuming his former stance.  Smirking, temporarily released from his stare when he looked away, I sit back in the chair and raise a challenging eyebrow.  

From the other side of the room where he's curled up in a very feline manner in a matching armchair, Yami dips his head even lower.  We've been out for dinner tonight and recently, for some reason that I cannot even begin to fathom, Yami always raids the fridge when we return, no matter how large or exquisite the meal.  And it's always the same damn thing.  He wants a pickle.  No reason.  It's just a new routine.

One that I'm thoroughly enjoying rubbing in his face right now.

"No."

The shortness of my statement no doubt infuriates him.  He puts a bit more energy into his stare for a few seconds, ultimately coming to the decision that this approach isn't working.  Slinking up and away from the plush depths of the chair, he approaches me slowly, his hips dropping into the rhythm of that little sway he knows I like and his eyes boring into mine darkly once more.

I manoeuvre the pickle in my fingers, now holding it like a cigar and I put the tip into my mouth in the same way.  Foul thing.  I won't show my repulsion though.  That would throw Yami off.  He'd win.  And that means I'd lose.  And I do so much hate to lose.

Stopping with one foot either side of my crossed ankles, Yami leans forwards and braces his hands on the arms of the chair, slowly bringing his body forward.  Our eyes are still level and up close that gaze of his is ten times more effective.  I do the only thing I can.  Still holding the pickle with my mouth and left hand, I close my eyes.  

I can't fall under his thrall if I can't see it.

I fully expected Yami to take the disgusting food item out of my mouth, probably using his own, and then scampering away to consume it and then returning to abuse me with his tainted breath.  He's done it before.  But he doesn't.  Instead, he gives a low, heavy laugh, more of a rumbling than anything else, and I feel him move away.

"Playing like that, are we?"

A shifting of material, the sounds of his buckles dropping to the carpet and then soft fabric is wrapped about the upper half of my head and pulled tight in a knot at the back of my skull.  I focus on the taste of the pickle to keep the smirk off my face.

Fingers play down my shoulders and up my neck from behind me, delicate touches sweeping under my jaw-line and brushing against my left wrist, still level with my face.  Warm breath against my cheek now but I'm ignoring it.  This is just another one of his methods.  More sensual, generally a back-up attack, and often very effective.  

"Stand."

Ah, a new order now.  It doesn't mean sacrificing the pickle and I want to indulge him at least a little, so I do as I am bid, rising in one fluid motion.  It's difficult with the makeshift blindfold but I remain steady on my feet.  A hand comes to my elbow and exerts some pressure, urging me to move.  

I let him lead and imagine my steps as I do so.  I know this house better than he does and can easily tell where he's leading me.  It also has the advantage of not bumping into furniture or tripping.  The minefield of buckles behind the chair was a small challenge but now he's guiding me upstairs.

From our pace I can tell when we've reached the sixth door, our shared bedroom for the last year and a half.  Heavy wood sweeping over an indulgingly comfortable carpet and halting at the stop I put next to the wall.  Forward again now, then gently spun and nudged back to sit on the bed.  

I still have the pickle.  

"Still after this?" I ask, speaking around it and feeling it bob gently between my lips.

"It's not nice to keep it all for yourself.  You should share."  The words are admonishing, husky, spoken a few feet to my left towards the foot of the bed.

I feel the mattress dip behind me and I can tell that Yami's on the bed now, the touch to my left thigh to encourage me to lift my legs over confirming as much.  He pushes me down but still allows me to hold the pickle, my fingers starting to stick to the slowly drying surface. 

"I don't want to share.  I much rather having it all to myself."

He makes a thoughtful noise and rests his weight on my hips.  My brow quirks at the movement, unseen by him due to the fabric.  He rocks once as if it were an innocent and idle action.  My treacherous body moves with him, remembering the rhythm.  My teeth sink involuntarily into the vegetable, releasing its repugnant flavour and nearly killing the moment.  I consider discarding it but this is far too enjoyable to give in so soon.

"You won't share at all?"

Another rock.  I refuse to make appropriate noises.  "No."

"Not anything?  You'd keep everything to yourself?"

"Yes."  That sounded too strained.  I bite the pickle again.

"You wouldn't share me?"

I frown outright now, the pickle and pressure on my hips, respectively, completely forgotten now.  "What do you mean?  I thought this was monogamous."  

Another rocking motion and my train of thought it briefly interrupted with a feeling in my belly and groin.  He doesn't seem at all flustered.  It must be the blindfold.  

"You wouldn't share me with Mokuba?  He likes my company and teaches me computer games.  We have fun."

"That's a different kind of sharing.  He doesn't sleep with you."

The top three buttons of my shirt are suddenly undone, warm hands creeping beneath the fabric yet barely moving it, fingers sweeping across my skin before resting still.  

"He's too young for that.  Well then, what about Yugi?  He is my Hikari, the other half of my soul.  I am connected to him on many levels.  If I am yours, will you not allow me time with him?"

I curl my toes firmly, enough to hurt and to ignore the heat.  "That's different again.  I don't think he *wants* to sleep with you, or you him.  Seems too much like incest."  I'm quite surprised at how coherent I'm being.  Mind, after successfully sitting through an unexpected yet important meeting with my secretary with Yami under my desk and being quite a nuisance, I think I can handle anything.

"I too find incest unsettling, and Yugi is also very innocent.  Bakura then?  I have been the object of his power-hungry obsession for a long time.  You would not let me duel him to protect my Puzzle and hidden power?"

The toe curling isn't working.  I fist my free hand in the quilt.  "He'd rather kill you than have sex with you, and I'm sure it goes the other way, and no, I wouldn't share you like that with him either."

He rolls his hips now, a step up from the rocking as they grind and press now before releasing their pressure.  My leg does a funny little jerk.  

"And the pickle?  I want it.  Will you share me with that?"

I swallow, a difficult action with my teeth forced apart and my mouth open.  "I won't share *it* with you."

Another roll and this position we're in is starting to become uncomfortable.  I'm going to remember this technique should I ever need to interrogate a suspicious employee.  

"What's the difference?"

He's asked too many questions now.  My tether is short and he's just reached, surpassed and waved goodbye to it.  Holding the pickle with just my teeth, I flip us over and hold myself over him, my hands either side of his shoulders and my legs laid out straight behind me.  I'm still blindfolded though, so I only dare to lower my head a few inches so as not to poke him with the pickle.  I jerk my head to indicate that he can take it now.

When he speaks his voice is a semitone lower than before, the hands that had moments ago been on my chest now skirting about my abdomen and hooking on my belt.

"Oh, I don't want *that* pickle anymore."

****

… Yeah…  I plead sickness and odd inspiration.  Meh.  Review for the fluff? Please?


End file.
